


Hand-Eye Coordination

by Zai42



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Facials, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Reconciliation is hard. Ill-advised blowjobs in the middle of the workday are much simpler.





	Hand-Eye Coordination

Tense wasn't exactly the right word to use for the energy that had settled over the Archives in the last week or so. There was tension, yes, and a healthy amount of unease, and a sense of resignation like a heavy, wet blanket. Even Martin seemed unable to keep up any real air of optimism, though he certainly tried harder than any of the rest of them.

 

Jon, for his part, could scarcely look any of them in the eye. He would lock himself in his office when he came in in the mornings, speak to them only when absolutely necessary (avoiding questions whenever possible, Tim noticed), and leave long after everyone else had left for the night. This probably would have infuriated Tim even a few months ago, but now he could hardly blame him. Tim would be locking himself in an office, too, if he had one. Still, it made for an...awkward work environment, if nothing else.

 

Not that Tim thought of the Institute as work, anymore. Prison was more accurate.

 

Still, he felt less like he was dying of a wasting disease when he was a good little captive and did as he was told, so he was standing in front of the door to Jon's office with a list of all the people in their latest case who were dead. (Hint: All of them were, because of course they were.) He knocked.

 

"Come in." Jon sounded miserable. Tim almost felt bad for him.

 

Tim entered, shutting the door behind him; it did nothing to lessen the feeling of being _exposed_ to something. He eyed Jon up and down; he was collapsed in his desk chair, rather than sitting stiffly upright as he used to; his arm and neck were in the stages of healing that made them look utterly ghastly; there were bruise-purple shadows beneath his eyes that highlighted how hollow his cheeks had become in the last few months.

 

"You're a mess," Tim said flatly, dumping the file on Jon's desk. Jon looked up at him, looking so forlorn that Tim felt a twinge of guilt. "Well. Join the club, I suppose," he added, as if that would soften the blow.

 

"Is that all?" Jon asked.

 

And suddenly Tim felt a surge of--of _something._ It wasn't quite anger, but there was a flash of emotion that cut through his haze of annoyed apathy like a scalpel. He sat himself up on Jon's desk and stared at him. "No," he said.

 

Jon bristled at that, a little shimmer of life coming back into him. "Then can I _help_ you, or did you just want to drape yourself over my desk?" he asked snappishly. Then he froze as if it had just occurred to him that was a _question,_ which he had been so carefully avoiding.

 

Tim had no idea if that counted as Jon using his...whatever on him. The fact that he didn't know should probably bother him more than it did. Instead he leaned forward, resting one foot on the arm of Jon's chair to maintain his balance. "Do you _ever_ use that mouth of yours for anything other than sarcasm or your statements?" he asked.

 

Jon's mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before he glanced away, staring instead at Tim's leg. "I don't know what you mean," he mumbled.

 

And before he knew what he was doing, Tim was surging forward, slamming both feet on the ground and crowding Jon up against the back of his chair, gripping his jaw in his hand and jerking his face back towards his. Jon's eyes had gone wide, his good hand white-knuckled on his armrest. Tim had no idea what the hell he was doing, only that he had to do _something,_ because even if tension wasn't the exact perfect word for what was sparking between them, it was close enough for Tim to want to shatter it.

 

His thumb stroked over Jon's lower lip; Jon sucked in a shaky gasp, his eyes slipping closed and his mouth falling open. OK, well. Tim wasn't one to turn down such an obvious invitation. He pressed the pad of his thumb into Jon's mouth, against his teeth and then his tongue; he half expected to get bitten for his troubles, but Jon was pliant beneath him. His eyes had opened, though. He was staring up at Tim with an expression he couldn't place. "Suck," Tim said.

 

Jon lowered his gaze, sealing his lips around Tim's thumb and swirling his tongue around it almost delicately. He was methodical about it, as he was with everything, sucking in even, careful movements, slowly working Tim's thumb in and out of his mouth. Meticulous. Orderly.

 

Jon made the faintest noise of disappointment when Tim pulled his thumb away, and then made a much more emphatic noise of shock when Tim shoved three fingers down his throat without warning. He gagged--Tim felt his throat working from the inside, the slick, fluttering squeeze of it--and tried to back away but Tim followed him, thrusting his fingers roughly. He hooked his legs around the desk chair and tugged it closer to him, until Jon was trapped between his thighs and against the back of the chair, unable to move in a way that would ease the relentless pressure Tim was putting on him.

 

Tim pulled his fingers away long enough for Jon to take in a few gulps of air, spreading them apart to examine the thin strings of saliva between them. Jon was panting shakily, his lips shiny with spit, his cheeks flushed with exertion or embarrassment or both. He licked his lips, his eyes flicking up towards Tim's and then away. "T-Tim--"

 

Tim very emphatically did not want a lecture on the myriad of reasons this was a bad idea. He grabbed Jon's jaw again--he cut himself off with a choked whine--and tilted his head up to force him to make eye contact. "You're a mess," Tim said, swiping his thumb along Jon's mouth. Jon pressed his tongue to it, almost too briefly to even call it a lick, then blushed harder and started staring at Tim's nose to avoid his eyes. "It's not a bad look."

 

"I--you sho--" He shut up mid-syllable when Tim pushed his fingers back into his mouth, moaning around the intrusion. The sound seemed to hang in the air--Jon's eyes went wide, and Tim's eyebrows disappeared beneath his hairline. For a moment, they were very still, eyes locked on each other. Then Tim hissed "Jesus _Christ,"_ and exploded into action, ripping his belt from its loops and tangling a hand in Jon's hair. He sighed in relief as he freed his cock, staring down at Jon from his perch on the desk. He twisted his hand in Jon's hair, tugging him forward; Tim had expected resistance but Jon went willingly enough, letting Tim thrust into his mouth in one smooth motion.

 

Jon reached up to grip the base of Tim's cock, but Tim grabbed his wrist, tightened his grip in his hair, and began to pump in and out of his mouth. He forced Jon's head down and down until he felt Jon gag, felt his throat spasm around his cock, then eased up before starting all over again. He fucked into Jon's mouth with long, slow movements, only pulling back when he choked and sputtered. Tim could feel Jon's pulse in his wrist, fluttering madly beneath his fingertips.

 

He relented when he felt Jon trying to pull away, easing his grip on his hair but not quite letting go. Jon coughed and took in a wet, shuddering gasp. He stared up at Tim, tears dampening his lashes, one hand shakily wiping the spit from his mouth. He swallowed thickly, then said in a voice rough from abuse, "P-please--"

 

And Tim pounced. He tugged Jon back onto his cock, abandoning slow and deliberate for rough and merciless. Jon's good hand scrabbled for purchase at Tim's hip, his nails digging painfully into the skin. His moan was punctuated with a thick choking noise, and Tim felt his throat constrict around him, slick and tight.

 

"Jesus, Jon," Tim gasped, trying to tug Jon closer and half curling around him. "Fuck--" His hips stuttered as Jon choked on his cock again--all he wanted to do was wrench that sound from Jon's throat, to hear him try to moan only to gag and sputter instead--

 

Tim pulled back, just long enough to see Jon's face, dazed and slick with a mess of tears and spit and precome, then held him still by his grip on his hair, stroked his cock twice, and came on his face. Jon twitched in shock, spluttering and squeezing his eyes shut, but Tim held him in place. Thick pulses of come splattered across the bridge of Jon's nose, along his cheeks, dripped down towards his lips. Tim swiped his thumb over Jon's lips; he parted them without complaint, licking Tim's skin clean almost demurely, his eyes opening to look up at Tim through lashes sticky with come. "Tim..." Jon said; he shifted awkwardly in his seat, and Tim let out a dark laugh.

 

"You want me to make you come?" he asked, leaning forward so he could hiss the question directly into Jon's ear. He shuddered and nodded, his good hand coming up to hesitantly grasp Tim's shoulder. Tim shifted, pressing his thigh between Jon's. He made no move to touch him other than that, or even to undo his zipper. Instead he cupped Jon's cheek, smearing his come into his skin with a stroke of his thumb. "Okay then. Rub yourself off on me." He laughed again at Jon's whine, then said lowly, enunciating every word very clearly: "Get yourself off on my leg with my come on your face."

 

Jon's hips stuttered, hesitantly at first but soon he was clutching Tim's shoulders tightly and grinding against him with a feverish desperation while Tim whispered filth into his ear. When Tim murmured, "God, boss, you're way more of a slut than I thought you'd be," Jon cried out, his hips stilling and he shook violently. Then he went limp, sinking down into his chair with a dazed moan. He panted heavily, glancing up at Tim and then away.

 

"Damn," Tim said. "I, um. Jesus." Jon blushed and made a move as if he were about to put his face in his hand, but then thought better of it. Tim glanced around for a box of tissues, and, finding none, shrugged out of his sweatshirt and handed it over. "Use this," he said when Jon hesitated. "It's fine."

 

Tim tucked himself away while Jon scrubbed at his face; he mused idly that he should have thought to grab a picture, but he had a feeling he'd be remembering the moment for a long time even without one.

 

Jon made a halfhearted attempt to fold the sweatshirt up in some semblance of neatness, but it was a fairly hopeless endeavor. He handed it back without looking at Tim and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Tim snorted. "Can't help you there, boss," he said, gesturing crudely at Jon's crotch. "You'll just have to go commando for the rest of the day."

 

Jon blushed. "Tim, I--we shouldn't have--" He sighed heavily. "Elias probably saw that whole thing," he muttered.

 

Tim snorted derisively. "Well if he's going to be a damn creeper, he can live with the consequences." He glared up at the ceiling as though he could see up however many floors into Elias' office. "He doesn't fucking _own_ us, you know," he said bitterly.

 

Jon stared at him for a long time, then lowered his gaze to the floorboards. "I hope you're right."

**Author's Note:**

> That'll fix it. Good talk, guys.


End file.
